By Adrienne Garrison
@adrie.garrison

It began with the third edition of Oregon Trail during elementary school. The game opened on a virtual dust road, lined with potential wagon-mates and clapboard shops. I was there for one thing and one thing alone—the general store. I could practically smell the salt pork and feel the grit of the spilt cornmeal under my hobnail boots. Look out Lewis and Clark, I’m here to shop. 

Or rather, to research extensively, and then shop. How many pounds of flour would I need to get eight people 2,000 miles at roughly 8 miles per hour—6 mph if I lost an ox fording the Ohio River (and I always did)? Was iodine necessary? Sarsaparilla? On page thirteen of the Oregon Trail guide book I found a game tip that pickles boost morale. Into the wagon went a gallon of pickles. Three hours into playing the game, I had everything I needed and about 200 extra pounds of things I didn’t. I was ready to hit the trail. 

I am not a minimalist. And I knew this was true long before motherhood.

I knew this was true in my first year of teaching, with all the bags. I was rolling my eyes at receiving yet another promotional tote before the school year began, but by November, I was a regular bag lady. 

“Hey Mrs. Garrison, what’s in your bag?” asks a fictionalized student for the sake of this narrative.

“Just the teacher’s guide for writers’ workshop and the composition notebooks of half the class, Johnny,” I said, smiling. “Also, an uneaten Lean Cuisine that I forgot to put into the staff freezer last Thursday and then neglected to remove for the following six days.” 

Johnny blanches. 

“Oh, and there’s about three dozen varieties of pens rolling around in there. Why do you ask?”

“No reason in particular, except for it makes your story a little more interesting. But, Mrs. Garrison?”

“Yes, dear?” 

“What’s in the … other bag?” and he gestures to the Wild About Math sack bulging under my left arm.

“Oh, that one? It’s just there to balance me out, so I can make it to my car without falling on my ear. Bye, now!” 

That’s how it went for five years or so until I had my daughter. And then it got really bad. Like, Pinterest-bad…

Minimalist Mama—What Nobody Needs for Parenting

87 Things You’ll Never Use, So Don’t Bother

Does A Baby Even Live Here? How to Stay Low-Key When You Have No Idea What You’re Doing

Etcetera. I read them all. And, channeling the drive of my youth, I poured over buying guides and blog posts and texted all my mommy friends and basically ended up with everything I would definitely need, everything I would probably need, most of the things I could possibly need, and sure—a few things I didn’t. 

Can you at least give me a little credit for saying no to the tiny plastic spatula that spreads diaper cream on your baby’s bum? God gave me a hand for that, thankyouverymuch. 

I am what you would call a maximalist.

When we travel, I like to play mental tetris with the hours of the day, rearranging sites and experiences until it all fits, like Mary Poppins’ magical carpet bag. 

“Mom, did Dumbledore give you some kind of Time Turner? How did you do it?” my adoring children never ask, because they are passed out in their carseats with their precious bobbleheads drooping at alarming angles, causing me low level anxiety from the front seat. I ask my husband whether we should stop to fix their heads because I can consult him on medical issues like this, but he doesn’t hear me. He’s too busy Google searching “How to take a vacation from your vacation.”

A maximalist, I tell you. 

But the other day, I was driving my kids to their first day of summer camp, mentally rehashing the supply list. Pausing at a red light, the sticky feeling under my armpits reminded me that in the frenzy, I’d forgotten a few things. Not to worry, I thought, reaching into the console for the travel-size deodorant I keep there, I planned for that. And later, after I’d waved goodbye to the kids, I turned to see the kind of everyday calamity I’d been training for. As though in slow motion, a little boy tripped over his own foot, skidding to a stop on the pea gravel. His tiny face crumpled and his mom, already holding his twin brother, swooped him out of the middle of the parking lot and tried to soothe him. As I walked past her minivan, she was attempting to coax him into his carseat with reassurances that he really didn’t need a bandaid, not really. It was only a little scrape, didn’t he see?

Well, listen. I had her back. Without breaking stride, I pulled out my wallet and handed her a bandaid, and then when the crying didn’t stop, I handed her two more for good measure.

“I read somewhere that band aids are good for morale.” I gave the boy a little spritz of numbing Neosporin I’d pulled out of the diaper bag and locked eyes with the woman for a second in maternal solidarity. 

There are women out there who would have solved that dilemma with an exercise in grittiness, or MacGyver’d a bandage out of a hair tie and kleenex, but I am not that woman.

If you need something, call me. I’m the girl you want next to you when you’re stuck on a tarmac, or caught with a diaper blowout, or about to be eaten alive by ravenous preschoolers who just had their lunch an hour ago. 

Did somebody say fruit snacks? You want Welch’s or actual freeze dried fruit? I got you, girl. I’m Maximalist Mom. 

Adrienne Garrison lives in Bloomington, Indiana with her husband and their two little ones. Her essays have appeared in Coffee + Crumbs and New Millennium Writings, and her short story “No Longer Mine” was recently featured in LETTERS Journal. Adrienne believes magic takes the form of heart-to-heart conversations, petit-fours, and walks in the woods. You can find more of her writing on her website.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.